A Local Habitation

  I didn’t have to wait long. Jan stepped closer, sneakers scuffling on the carpet, and said, “Toby? We haven’t—I haven’t told you everything, and I think it’s important for you to understand what we’re really working on. Promise you’ll come find me when you wake up?”

  “I’ll find you,” I mumbled. I wanted to make her tell me now, but I couldn’t find my legs, much less make them work. We all have our limits, and I’d exceeded mine.

  “Okay. What you said about the memory? This may explain. And I think it’s important that you know.” She sighed. “I need you to know everything.”

  “Promise . . .” I said. Something in me was screaming for answers, but the fog didn’t care. I don’t remember how long she sat there or when she left; all I remember is the fall into darkness and the half-dreamed sound of the night-haunts’ wings.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MY DREAMS WERE A TANGLE of twisted snapshots. April disappearing in front of the building in a hail of sparks and oak leaves; Gordan shouting in a dozen languages as she ran down an endless hall; Alexa and Terrie, bloody hands intertwined, laughing. Pale-faced knights and maidens littered the ground, and I was looking for the birds. I had to find them. A phrase kept repeating, scrawled on walls and bulletin boards: “. . . and no birds sing.” Why did it matter whether or not the birds were singing? And above it all there was the faint, constant buzzing of the night-haunts’ wings, and a voice saying, “You were my hero. I’ve had few enough of those.”

  “What about the birds?” I shouted. The walls were falling, leaving me scrambling for purchase on the dissolving ground. “I have to find the birds!”

  “Do you think that they will sing for you?” the voice asked, almost gently.

  The world continued to fall. Someone I couldn’t see was shaking me. I thought it was part of the dream and swung wildly, only to find my arm caught. Alex’s voice broke through the remains of my dreams, vibrating with barely restrained terror: “Toby, wake up. Please.”

  Panic is a wonderful stimulant. I pulled my arm free and sat up. “What’s wrong?” I was too busy processing the situation to get mad at him for touching me. Yet.

  “We can’t find Jan.” He looked haggard but alert; at least someone had been finding time to rest. Connor was asleep next to me, and Quentin was curled up on the floor, using his coat as a pillow. I must have been asleep for hours if they’d both gone down, and asleep hard if I didn’t even hear them coming in.

  “When did you last see her?” I stood. Dizziness washed over me. I caught myself against the wall.

  “About an hour after sunrise.”

  Oh, oak and ash. “What time is it now?”

  “Almost eleven-thirty.”

  I stared. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me sooner?” I demanded. Quentin made a small grumpy noise and rolled over, still asleep. That wasn’t going to last long.

  “Elliot said to let you sleep until we were sure she was gone. Gordan just got back from checking her apartment. He said it was time to wake you.” Catching my expression, he added, “He’s her seneschal, Toby. Whether or not it was a good idea, he’s allowed to make the call.”

  “I know. I know.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Is her bike still here?”

  He paused. “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s a good sign. Everything we know about has happened on company grounds, so if her bike’s gone, she’s probably okay. You go check; I’ll wake the guys and be right there.”

  “Can you find your way out?”

  I felt the irrational need to comfort him, and glared. He put his hands up.

  “I’m not doing it on purpose, I swear. I’m just nervous. It happens when I get nervous.”

  “We can find it. Now get out.” I was willing to believe he couldn’t help it. That didn’t mean I wanted him near me. “Go see if her bike is there.”

  “All right.” He shut the door as he left, and my thoughts cleared almost immediately. I shook my head, disgusted.

  My dislike of Alex didn’t have anything to do with the matter at hand. Jan was missing. Oberon help us all. Bending over the futon, I shook Connor’s shoulder. He muttered something unintelligible and opened his eyes.

  “Get up,” I said. “Jan’s missing.”

  Connor sat up almost as fast as I had, swinging his feet around to the floor and kicking Quentin in the shoulder. Quentin staggered to his feet with eyes still half-closed, looking dazedly around the room.

  “What happened?” asked Connor.

  “I don’t know. They just woke me.” I put out an arm, steadying Quentin. “Wake up. Jan’s missing.”

  The sleepiness cleared from his face like I’d flipped a switch. “What do we do?”

  “Follow me, both of you. And stay alert.” I crossed the room in two long steps, Connor close behind me, Quentin bringing up the rear.

  The halls were amazingly straightforward, running in almost straight lines. We found our way to the parking lot without a single wrong turn, bursting out the door. Elliot was outside, staring into the underbrush. He ran over when he saw us, grabbing my hands. I winced at the pressure on my wounded palm but managed not to scream or pull away.

  “Please, you have to find her,” he said. “Please.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I said. Anything less would have been unfair; anything more would have been a lie. Unless she’d gone off-site or locked herself in an empty office to get some work done, she was probably dead. I’m enough of a realist to know that . . . but I also knew that wasn’t the kind of reassurance he was looking for.

  “That’s all we can ask,” he said, and dropped my hands. He looked smaller somehow, deflated. He’d already given up. I couldn’t blame him; he’d lost his lover, and now we both knew he’d lost his liege as well. It would have broken anyone. It would have broken me.

  Alex wasn’t far away. He was standing to one side, staring at his hands. I didn’t have to ask to know whether he’d found her bike. The tears running down his face told me everything.

  “Toby . . .” Quentin said.

  “I see him.” Turning, I walked to the main entrance with Connor and Quentin behind me. No one followed; no one saw us go.

  The halls were empty, and our footsteps echoed as we walked. It was like walking back through time to Shadowed Hills right after Luna disappeared . . . only this time we weren’t expecting to find the missing regent pruning roses in a garden somewhere. This time, we weren’t expecting to find the missing regent at all.

  Connor’s hand found mine, fingers slipping into place. “Where do we start?”

  “We’re not starting anywhere,” I said. “We’re going to let the knowe show us the way.”

  “What?” asked Quentin.

  “Just follow me.” This wouldn’t have worked earlier, while Jan was alive and controlling the knowe with her expectations. It might not work now. It was the best idea I had. Turning the first corner we came to, I walked.

  Knowes shape themselves to fit the subconscious desires of their keepers. That’s why Shadowed Hills has so many gardens; that’s why my mother’s hall never had any mirrors or locks on the doors. I was counting on that to take us to the body. I would never have tried it with a moving target or with anyone less tied to the County than Jan . . . but the King is literally the land in Faerie, and if she were dead, the knowe would want us to find her.

  We didn’t pass anyone as we walked. I was following the patterns in the tile and the directions indicated by careless arrows on bulletin boards, trusting anything that looked like it could be a sign. It seemed to be working. Our route was leading us through more and more places that I recognized, taking us onto familiar ground.

  Quentin looked at me as we walked, asking, “Is she dead?”

  “Probably.” I studied our surroundings, finally starting for the door that seemed most aligned with the scuff marks on the floor.

  “Why didn’t they wake us sooner?”

  “Because that would have made it real,”
said Connor. We both looked toward him, and he shrugged. “As long as they were looking on their own, it wasn’t happening.”

  The door led to the cafeteria kitchen, revealing a second entrance previously concealed by the cupboards on that wall. The cafeteria was spotless, all traces of my ritual circle and its messy results wiped away by Elliot’s magic. I wondered how long we’d been asleep before he gave in to the urge to clean.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’re getting closer.”

  “But what are we doing?” Quentin was looking increasingly frustrated.

  “We’re letting the knowe lead us. Jan was Countess, and the land will be in mourning if she’s dead. It’ll want us to find her.” I stepped into the hall, noting without surprise that we were only a few doors down from Jan’s office. There wasn’t much chance of finding her there—they’d almost certainly looked there first—but it was a start. Even endings begin somewhere.

  “How can that even work?” Now Quentin looked perplexed. From his expression, Connor got it, but was willing to let me be the one to explain.

  “The King is the land, Quentin. That’s all. That’s how it’s always worked in Faerie.” The door to Jan’s office was standing ajar. Someone inside was crying. I pulled my hand out of Connor’s, signaling him and Quentin to stay where they were. When the sound didn’t change, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The office lights were off and the shades were drawn, casting the room into an artificial twilight. I squinted. “Hello? Jan?” The sobbing continued, bitter and brokenhearted. “Jan?”

  “That’s not her,” said Quentin, as he and Connor stepped into the room.

  I paused, listening. He was right. The voice was too high to be Jan’s. “No,” I said, and started toward the desk, stepping carefully. Heaps of paper had fallen to cover the walkway, creating minor avalanches that would probably never be cleaned up. That hurt. The difference between clutter and chaos is control, and Jan’s control had been broken.

  Her notes on Barbara’s connection to Dreamer’s Glass were stacked on the desk chair. I knelt, pushing it aside to reveal April, compacted into a ball with her hands over her face, weeping.

  “April?” I put my hand on her shoulder, or tried to; it passed through and hit the back of the desk. It was like reaching into a fogbank. I withdrew my hand. “Can you hear me?”

  She shuddered, sobs fading as she chanted, “She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone . . .”

  “Who’s gone? April, where’s Jan?” I kept my tone calm. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her more.

  “Mommy’s off-line. No more reboots.” She raised her head. Tears were falling in straight lines down her cheeks, like they’d been drawn on. It would have been unnerving under normal circumstances, but her distress made it even worse. “She’s not supposed to go off-line. She’s supposed to take care of me.”

  I blanched. I knew what “off- line” meant to April. Carefully, I asked, “Where’s your mother, April?”

  “Like the others now. Gone.” She shuddered and began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees. “Off- line. Out of service. Yanked from the router.”

  “Gone,” confirmed a voice. I looked up. Alex was in the doorway next to Connor, hands limp by his sides. It was the first time I’d seen him so still. “Gordan found her. She’s gone.”

  “Where’s the body?” I asked, suddenly, crushingly weary. How could I have lost her? How could I have been stupid enough to believe that we had time?

  What was Sylvester going to say when he found out I’d failed him again?

  “She’s in one of the server rooms. It looks like she went to check on a glitch in router four, and whoever it was . . .” He stopped, looking away. “Maybe you’d better come see for yourself.”

  “You’re right. We should. April . . .” I reached for her and she whimpered, disappearing in a crackle of static. I stood. I could find her later; for the moment, her mother needed me more. Oberon help us all.

  None of us spoke as Alex led us through the empty halls. He didn’t need to say anything; his posture was accusation enough, and in the face of that accusation, the rest of us had nothing to say. Connor took my hand, and clung, both of us trying to take strength from the contact. We failed. After everything we did or tried to do, we couldn’t keep Jan safe. What was the point, if we couldn’t save the people we were trying to defend?

  Alex stopped at an unmarked door. “She’s inside.”

  Either his glamour was more voluntary than he wanted to admit, or I was too sick with failure to be affected. “So we go in.”

  He didn’t say another word. He just opened the door.

  The server room lights were on, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t had any breakfast. Quentin made a muffled choking sound, clapping his hands over his mouth. Connor went pale. My own nausea was easier to swallow, replaced by a crushing sense of loss.

  Oh, Jan, I thought. I am so sorry.

  She was crumpled like a discarded rag doll, head bent at an impossible angle, with a series of uneven gashes splitting her torso from waist to shoulder. Another gash cut across her throat. Her eyes were open behind her glasses, staring at nothing. Blood pooled on the floor around her, dried brown and ugly; she could never have lived after losing that much blood. Bloody handprints climbed halfway up a rack of stacked machines and trailed down the wall beside it.

  The others died without fighting, but not Jan. Several cables had been yanked loose in the struggle, and the machines they connected to were beeping, telling us that power had been compromised. That wasn’t all that had been compromised. She had time to try to get away. That meant she also had time to suffer.

  “Toby . . .” Quentin said unsteadily.

  “If you need to be sick, do it in the hall.” I moved toward the body, studying the blood splatters on the floor. The footprints were all hers—wait. No, not all. There were smaller prints around the body, made by doll-sized feet. The night-haunts had been and gone, and they’re not normally clumsy enough to leave signs of their passing behind; this was a message. There is nothing for us here. Jan’s body was still fae, her unnatural beauty left intact. Whatever hunted the dead at ALH, it took her, too.

  Quentin’s retreat was followed by the sound of retching. I ignored it, kneeling next to the body. The wounds on her chest and throat were the most obvious, but they weren’t the only ones; she’d been hamstrung, probably while she was still moving. Whoever cornered her took no chances. I turned her head to the side, exposing her neck. The expected puncture was there, on the other side of the larger, more garish wound, and similar punctures marked her wrists. This wasn’t a second killer; Jan had surprised our original murderer into breaking his pattern.

  Three of her fingernails were torn, and one sleeve of her sweater was ripped nearly off. Whatever she did, it was almost enough. “Good for you,” I whispered, and pressed my fingers to her cheek, pulling them away slick with blood. It was cold; she’d been dead since shortly after she disappeared. That’s when she’d have been easiest to catch—morning, when people would be most distracted by exhaustion and the dawn. I brought my fingers to my lips, licking them, and scowled. The blood was empty, just like all the others.

  Alex shifted his weight, saying, “Well?”

  “Let her work,” snapped Connor.

  I ignored them, looking over my shoulder toward the door. “Quentin, come over here.”

  Still pale, he stepped back into the room, walking over to stand next to me. He avoided the blood on the floor. Good boy.

  “Now what are you going to do?” said Alex.

  “Look, can you just give us a minute? We need to work.”

  “Haven’t you had enough minutes?”

  I looked at him calmly, too exhausted and heartbroken to be angry. “Connor, get him out of here. We need to concentrate.”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  “Yeah, dude, you are.” Connor hooked his arm around Alex’s throat, catching the taller man by surp
rise. While Alex was coughing, Connor continued, conversationally, “Now, we can stand here until you stop breathing and I drag you out, or we can go out to the hall. You’ll like the hall. It comes with oxygen.”

  Alex managed to gasp, “Hall,” and Connor smiled.

  “Clever. Toby, shout when you need us.”

  I offered a half-salute. “Got it. Now get out.” I bent forward, concentrating on the body until I heard the door close. Without looking up, I asked, “They gone?”

  “Yes,” said Quentin. I looked up.

  “I know this is hard, but we don’t have a choice. I need your help. Can you do that?” When he nodded, I forced myself to smile. “Good. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  He frowned. “Her wounds are different. She had time to struggle?”

  “Right.” I removed Jan’s glasses, sliding them into my pocket before gently closing her eyes. I didn’t need to worry about tampering with the evidence: in a very real sense, Quentin and I were the forensics team. “Can you tell me what that means?”

  “Um. Is the blood still . . . like the others?”

  “The blood in her body is.” Straightening, I walked over to the server rack, studying the smeared blood for patches that hadn’t quite dried.

  Quentin’s eyes widened. “You think her killers didn’t get it all?”

  “It would make sense if they hadn’t, wouldn’t it?” I glanced back at him. “You think there was more than one killer. Why?”

  “She’s . . . well, she’s split open. I don’t think one person could do that.”

  “I’d agree with you, but remember, some races are stronger than others.” I’ve seen Tybalt kill an adult Red-cap with no weapons but his own claws. “I’m a lot more interested in the fact that all the footprints are Jan’s, or from the night-haunts.”

  “I’ve never heard of the night-haunts leaving footprints,” said Quentin.

  “I think they did it on purpose, so I’d know they’d been here.” I’d have to consider what that meant, later; if I had a personal relationship with the ghouls of Faerie now, I wanted to know about it.